A Soldier's Journey
by niennavalier
Summary: Snippets of the life of James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, from childhood days with his best friend to modern day, trying to piece back together the past. Set at various points in the Captain America movie universe from pre- The First Avenger to post- The Winter Soldier. Non-Slash.


**So, seeing as how it doesn't seem likely I'll be leaving this fandom anytime soon, I figured I'd make this a collection of, basically, Bucky-centric one-shots to save anyone interested from having to look through a bunch of individual ones on my profile. I'm not planning to write these in any specific order, just when an idea comes to mind. As such, I'll have them set at various times around the two movies for a mix of fluff and angst. This one is written through the bank vault scene of _The Winter Soldier_, so I apologize if I got any of the dialogue wrong. And if you've got time, reviews would be hugely appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize here; that honor belongs to Marvel.**

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Something More

People, doctors moved around him, silently poking and prodding at his metal arm, efficient and focused as the cold air hung still and stale in the underground bank vault. The Soldier knew all of this, every detail down to a single crack in the floor, but, at the same time, he wasn't really there; his body might be occupying the physical space, but his mind was elsewhere, in faraway places he couldn't claim to recognize. Suddenly, he was in the frigid cold, sharp and stinging wind stabbing at his exposed skin as he… was he falling? He tried to turn his head, tried searching for where it was he'd fallen from. But instead, all that appeared was just another scene.

Everything was darker this time, blurring at the edges for some reason he couldn't grasp, but he was no longer in the air. He was on the ground, on the hard snow, hardly able to feel anything besides the pain, a mind-numbing pain of mortal agony. All around him, the landscape was a lackluster grayscale, the blackened and dying trees really little more than scraggly twigs, the sad and dull clouds up above, all of it. Except for the blood. It was so red, such a deep and ominous color, pooling from a stump of an arm, staining the pure white ice before his eyes. Was this how it would have looked to his victims, when they were only within the last inch of their lives? He had no idea; he was a weapon, and weapons weren't supposed to think. But then, what were these things flashing before his eyes? Memories? He didn't have those.

Another shake of the head, another snippet of something. Cold, sterile light, and two hands, one of flesh, the other metal. His hands? Grabbing at a man's neck, then a different face appeared in the descending haze, and a voice. _Sergeant Barnes…_

Before he knew it, his arm, his real arm and not the one in his head, was shooting out, striking a man square in the chest, sending him flying across the room to slam into a wall. The Soldier perceived the guns trained on him, the door opening, but his focus was still on other times, other places.

Footsteps. "Mission report."

The man – the man he'd fought He called him a name, too. Bucky. But why? He didn't have a name. Weapons didn't need them.

"Mission report. Now."

Then, what was it the man had meant? Who was this man with the shield? Who was Bucky? Or Sergeant Barnes? That couldn't possibly be him. Could it?

A sharp slap on the cheek brought him back to the present, back to the cold and secret room. "The man on the bridge. Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment." Pierce's voice is steely, uncaring, but the Soldier continues to try and search his broken mind, truly thinking for the first time in decades.

And one thing he is sure of, even if he doesn't know why. "I knew him."

"Your work has been a gift to mankind. You helped shape the century, and I need you to do it again," Pierce changed the topic, as if that might take his mind off the revelations flashing across his mind's eye. "Humanity is at a tipping point between peace and chaos. All we need to do is give it a push in the right direction."

Perhaps there was a time in the past where those words might have meant something, convinced him to listen wholly to his handlers without question. But now? There was the man's face again, kind and worried, genuinely concerned. How could he just sit and obey? "But I knew him," was all he could manage. It felt as though he stood before a great dam, watching as cracks, weaknesses appeared, and small pieces slipped through, the structure barely enough anymore to hold back old things, important things. And there was this man, possibly just the last bit of force to knock everything free. But, then again, was he honestly ready to handle the impact of it all? However, he was sure, ready or not, he wanted to know what lay behind that wall, yet nothing more came.

"He's been out of cryo for too long." The Winter Soldier doesn't try to understand, doesn't know what they mean by "cryo", though frigid prickles travel up the length of his arm at the word.

"Then wipe him, and start over." Pierces voice this time, and suddenly he's being shoved back deeper into the chair, accepting the rubber block they force into his mouth without resistance. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he could easily fight back, kill every single person in the room in a matter of seconds. But not once has he ever considered it. All he remembers ever knowing is obedience, following his masters' orders, for what was he without a mission? What could a weapon do without its handler?

Yet, everything he's seeing in his head is telling him otherwise, that at one time he was something besides someone else's weapon. Something more. That he was once his own person, with a life, family, people he cared about, things that were more important than an objective. Things truly worth dying for.

An electric buzzing filled the air, and the Soldier felt his pulse begin to race, his breaths come in quick gasps. Nowhere in his shattered memory could he exactly know what was to come next, but some instinct, buried deep inside, told him it would hurt. And he didn't want it to hurt, to receive punishment, to know he'd done something wrong. But there was more too beyond that. It was a conflict within his mind: one side insisting the pain was for his own, the other longing to remember, to find out. Then there was a voice, promising him he was stronger than HYDRA's programming, that they would never be able to break him.

What was that voice? Was it true?

The metal encased his head, and lightning burned through his skull. Screams filled the air, and everything began to slip away again, fading into the blur and fog.

No, the voice had lied to him. He wasn't strong; he couldn't hold on. And, though he didn't know why, he was sorry.


End file.
